


your heart called to me in the storm

by sydneygremlins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Grief, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Triple Drabble, and here is... a product???, i went into an Angry About Finale fugue, no beta we die like cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29554125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sydneygremlins/pseuds/sydneygremlins
Summary: !! tw for self harm !!Dean isn’t coping well.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 11





	your heart called to me in the storm

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for clicking on this!!! also sorry in advance!!

“You don’t get to do this!” Dean shouts into the pouring rain that is stinging like knives on his skin, drenching his shirt and soaking his shoes. It mingles with his tears, until there is no clear beginning nor end of his grief where it mixes with the sky’s tears too.

“You don’t get to fucking  _ do this!  _ It’s not  _ fair!” _ and he feels like a kid again, but it’s a kid he never was, one he wasn’t allowed to be. Not when he was taking care of Sammy.

Thunder rolls somewhere far–off, and Dean falls to his knees, not in prayer, but in damnation. “You don’t get to die and leave me here alone,” he insists brokenly to the sheets of rain that are crashing down on the blacktop. “You don’t —” his voice tears at his throat, and he drinks in the rain. It trickles, cold, down his throat, and he swears he can feel its icy presence sitting heavy in his stomach. “You don’t get to leave me,” he chokes out, not shouting anymore. He’s sobbing, now, he’s crying in the rain, and he can’t even bring himself to care for the theatrics of it because Cas is  _ gone _ . 

“I’m not worth it,” he mutters into the gray night. The words carve a home in his chest like a teenage boy in a motel bathroom with a Swiss army knife his dad gave him when he was too young to understand missing something you’ve never had. 

It’s normally a dull kind of pain, now, on the already–scarred terrain of his heart, but Dean can almost feel the blood pooling, can almost see the red stains on the sink and on his shirt.

He can’t do anything right.

“I hate you,” he cries.  _ I love you _ , he means.


End file.
